Love's Labyrinth (17 page)

“And in here is the second chamber—with a key in the lock outside the hall door, just like this one.”

“Fetch it, Jack,” said Nicholas. “This will do,” he said to the landlord. He pulled a money pouch from his belt. “What do I owe you?”

“For just tonight, Master Steele?”

“Aye, we’re bound for Calais on the morrow.”

“Fourpence for each room, an it please you. That includes the stabling of your horses, and room for your squire in the loft above the stable.”

Nicholas handed over a shilling. “Send up a bath for my wife, and a maid to attend her. And tell me, where can I book passage? Know you a captain of repute?”

“Aye, my lord, thank you, my lord.” The landlord bobbed a bow. “Downstairs now, the captain of the
Merry Harry
is drinking a pint of my best ale.”

“Good. Will you tell him Master Steele would speak with him? I’ll be down directly.” Nicholas turned to Jack when the landlord had gone. “Put the trunk in there.” He nodded toward the second room. “Then see to the horses. Here, my dear.” He placed the iron key Jack had given him in the palm of her hand. “I’ll shut this door when I go down. I’ll wait until the maid brings your bath though.”

A quizzical look crossed her face. “You can trust me not to say—”

“It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” he interrupted her. His face was hard to read. “There’re stories told—of things that can happen. This is a reputable inn and I doubt any of them happen here. But you are in my care and under my protection, and…” he paused, as if searching for a way to finish. “And I would not have anything untoward happen to you.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Suddenly, she felt very shy.

“You know you needn’t call me that.” He shook his head. “My name is Nicholas—or Stephen, for now.”

“I—I know. I haven’t wanted to appear overly forward—” she began, in the very same instant as he said: “It would sound odd if you did not make use of—”

They both broke off and laughed shortly, staring at each other, and Olivia was acutely aware that they were alone and that the bed beside them was less than three or four paces away.
What do you think you’re doing?
screamed the more rational side of her mind.

A sudden knock on the door broke the spell. “Bath to go in here, sir?”

“Next door.” Nicholas did not look away from her.

“Nicholas,” she said, hesitantly, almost tasting the sound of his name. “Thank you for the bath, but—why? Why did you order it? I bathed just this morning.”

“You said you were sore from the long ride. I thought it would feel good and help remove the ache.”

“Mistress?” A girl’s soft voice interrupted Olivia before she could speak. “Mistress Steele?”

“Yes?” Olivia said, realizing that this, more than any other so far, was really the opening scene of the play they were about to begin. “I’m Mistress Steele.” She flashed Nicholas a bright, reassuring smile and stepped around him into the part.

The common room was filled with travelers of all degrees and stations, thought Nicholas as he nursed a pint of ale beside the fire. In one of the rooms above, Olivia slept, he trusted, content enough after her bath and dinner. The long day had tired her out, he hoped, as much for his sake as for hers. Pray he’d be able to sleep, knowing that she was just on the other side of the dark oak door.

He had thought her attractive fleetingly, he realized, when he’d first seen her, and seeing her dressed in his own clothes had roused undeniable desires. But when he’d seen her dressed as a lady of his own time, with his mother’s clothes made over to fit her more slender form, he had been taken aback this morning by her transformation. It was as if she’d not only donned the clothes of an accomplished lady, but the manner and bearing of one as well. And yet, there was a touching vulnerability in her dark eyes that made him want to protect her, keep her safe from the dangers he knew all too well lurked at every turn.

Thieves and cutpurses, who would murder them both for their clothing, were the least of them, he mused. He glanced up and was startled to see Christopher Warren slipping out of the room. Their eyes met, and Nicholas knew the man recognized him. He raised his tankard, but Warren was gone, slipping out of the tavern and into the night without so much as a nod. That was odd, thought Nicholas as he settled back into his chair. Or was it? Didn’t it make sense for Warren to make sure he was doing his duty as he’d promised? But why not speak to him?

Nicholas glanced around at the other patrons. Maybe, he thought suddenly, there were
Spanish
agents about—Spanish agents who would report to their contact in Calais whether or not the Englishman could be trusted. Of course, he thought. That must be it. He settled back in his chair and called for another ale, trying to occupy his mind with thoughts of what he would do with Elizabeth’s reward, while all the time thoughts of Olivia snuggled in her bed warred with Geoffrey’s nagging warning.

DESPITE NICHOLAS’s hopes for fair weather, the next day dawned gray and overcast, with a damp wind that whined out of the south, bringing rain in short, vicious squalls. Olivia woke to the sound of rain lashing against the casement window of her room. For a moment she lay still, the coarse linen sheets pulled up to her chin. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers. Coarsely woven as it was, the linen had been washed to soft suppleness by repeated launderings. It smelled of fresh salt air and the sun. She stared up at the ceiling. There were cracks in the plaster above her head, and she could imagine the mice and rats scampering inside the thatch. With a shudder, she forced that thought out of her head. There were some things she’d rather not think about. She sat up in bed, wondering whether or not the rain would delay their journey. Instantly she was chilled by the damp air. She looked at the cold, dark hearth with sudden longing. Would they think her mad if she asked for a fire to take the chill away?

A knock on the adjoining door between the two bedrooms startled her. She climbed out of the high bed, dragging her robe around her shoulders. All her muscles protested. Despite yesterday’s warm bath, she was sore in places she’d forgotten she had. She opened the door. Nicholas was fully dressed, and his damp hair and rain-spotted cloak told her he’d most likely been out in the weather.

“There’ll be no travel today, lady,” he said without greeting. He avoided looking at her.

“What will we do?”

He shrugged. “I’ve sent for a maid and I’ve ordered a breakfast for us in the private parlor. If you would care to join me there, you’ll find it right off the common room.” He broke off, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Other than that—” He rubbed his chin, and she could see he felt as frustrated as she.

“I’ll be happy to join you,” she said, as someone tapped briskly on her hall door.

“That must be the maid. I saw her on my way up.”

“I’ll join you directly, then.”

Olivia shut the door and tried not to notice how her hand shook. A day alone with Nicholas—in an inn. She wondered what time it was, but the gray sky prevented her from even guessing how late it was. She opened the door to the same cheery-faced maid who’d waited on her last night.

“G’morrow to ye, mistress,” Molly chirped as she entered, dragging in a large bucket filled with steaming water.

Olivia returned the greeting with a smile and a nod.

“Good morrow to you, Molly.”

“And a cold, miserable day ‘tis, in truth. Landlord says ye’ll not be traveling today.” She bustled to the bed and threw the sheets back. “There—we’ll just let that air a bit.” She poured half the water into an earthen bowl by the bed, reached beneath the bed, and pulled out the chamber pot.

“Y’ have a wash, mistress, while I see to this. And then I’ll help ye dress—unless of course yer husband—?” She paused, an expectant smile on her face. “He’s a fine one, if ye don’t mind me saying so. Man like that gets himself noticed.”

Olivia felt herself flush. “Yes.” she stammered, mortified by her reaction. “He’s quite—quite good-looking. But, no, he, uh, he has affairs of his own to manage, please come back and help. I believe my—my husband is downstairs already.”

“An you will, mistress.” With a cheery smile she left the room, shutting the door behind her, leaving Olivia still blushing at the thought of Nicholas helping her dress.

She found Nicholas waiting for her at a table pulled up beside the fire. They were alone in the parlor. He stood up as she entered. “We aren’t the only travelers whose plans are delayed by the weather, but apparently we’re the only ones who rate the parlor. Tell me, do you play primero?”

Olivia shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to teach it to you?” he asked as he took his seat opposite from her, across the wide plank table. “It’s a way to while away the time. Or perhaps chess? Do you play chess?”

Before she could answer, the landlord bustled in. carrying a large tray on which were a bowl of peaches, a cold haunch of roast meat, and a round loaf of bread. He placed the food before them and stepped back, hands on his hips. “Ale, sir?”

“Aye,” said Nicholas, “and cider—hot cider—for the lady.” He had noticed that she had not developed a taste for the most common of sixteenth-century drinks. He waited until the landlord had gone. “May I serve you?”

“Please.”

She watched while he carved a slice of meat off the haunch and placed it, along with half the bread and a peach, on her plate. ‘Thank you.”

They ate in silence, and Olivia was acutely aware that they were alone, and equally aware of everything in the spare, clean parlor. Every sense she had was alert. The fire snapped and hissed and infused the room with the smoky scent of burning wood. Rain lashed against the tiny panes of the two small windows, which rattled in their frames with the force of the wind. She was preternaturally conscious of the very walls—plain whitewash—and the floor, with its smooth wooden planks, unlike the flagstones in the common room. She was sure she could count every crack, every seam, in the plaster ceiling with its exposed, smoke-blackened beams.

She picked up the peach. It was a heavy velvet ball in her hand—a ripe, golden pink that smelled of the orchard and the sun. She closed her eyes and inhaled, then bit into the flesh. Peach juice, sweet and syrupy and warm, exploded on her tongue. She opened her eyes and met Nicholas’s. He was watching her with the same kind of intensity. Who would ever believe this, she wondered. Here she sat, in a sixteenth-century inn, wearing sixteenth-century clothes, eating peaches with an English lord who looked like every woman’s fantasy of what an English lord should be.

This is ridiculous, she scolded herself. You’re behaving like a schoolgirl. Why not just—just enjoy each other?

But another voice intruded, a voice that sounded like her father’s, warning her against hurt and regret and to exercise caution in all matters of the heart. This relationship, if such it could be called—could go nowhere. They literally belonged to two different times and places.
Then why,
cried out her less rational side,
why do you feel as though you’ve known this man forever? As though you understand exactly what he wants? And why does it all seem so simple?
She glanced up. His gaze hadn’t moved. To her horror, she felt herself blush. He was looking at her with an odd expression, she realized—a little half-smile that danced at the corners of his mouth, as though he were amused. “Is there—is there anything wrong?”

“No,” he said. “It’s only—well, I suppose things must be different for you—seldom have I seen a lady tear into a piece of fruit the way you did.”

“Oh!” She placed the peach on her plate and picked up her knife, suddenly flustered and embarrassed, remembering that the Elizabethans valued faultless table manners. To Nicholas, her action must’ve seemed as barbaric as using a chamber-pot did to her.

“No, no,” he said, grasping her hand. “Please—I never meant to discomfit you. You continue to amaze me, please, continue eating as you wish. I meant no insult.”

She looked from his fingers wrapped around her wrist to his eyes. Instantly he released her hand. “What do you mean, I amaze you?”